


Perk and Polish

by Mistress_of_Microscopes



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Angry Holly, Angst and Feels, Character Study, Childhood, Family Member Death, Gen, Interviews, Personal Growth, Self-Indulgent, Snippets, Some Fluff, Team Dynamics, Training, cases, job search, mild harassment, when inter-agency rivalry is a good thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_of_Microscopes/pseuds/Mistress_of_Microscopes
Summary: How did Holly Munro come to be the perfectionist, slightly neurotic individual we see in the books? Why did she train to become an agent? How did she join Rotwell? There's so little of her backstory in canon. Here's my (completely invented) take on her life before Lockwood and Co. These are snippets from Holly's childhood and young adulthood, revealing key formative experiences that shaped her into the character we know.
Comments: 29
Kudos: 21





	1. Age 7: Keeping Time

**Author's Note:**

> All credit to Jonathan Stroud, of course. Title from one of Lucy's first impressions of Holly on her first day as assistant in THB.

### 

Keeping Time

Holly was late. Again. And Ms. Ainsworth was none too pleased. The young teacher’s face was stern, her green eyes reprimanding. “This is unacceptable, Holly! You’ve been late nearly every day for the past two weeks! Punctuality is a virtue, young lady, one you have clearly been neglecting.”

Staring at the floor, Holly felt a dark flush of shame bleed across her cheeks. She was all too aware of her classmates’ eyes on her—some gleeful, others merely curious. She blinked back tears, willing her bottom lip to stop trembling. It was so unfair! It wasn’t even her fault that she was late. _She’d_ been ready ages ago. If only her dad hadn’t taken so long with breakfast, she would’ve been on time.

Ms. Ainsworth, seeming to divine some of her feelings, softened. “I’m sorry Holly, but you understand why I’m upset with you, don’t you? School is one thing, but what about curfew? What if you’re late getting back to safety one night? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Please promise me you’ll try harder?”

Holly met her teacher’s beseeching gaze. The same concerns Ms. Ainsworth had so innocently expressed had begun to plague her of late. Every day, there was another story in the paper, another rumor at school. A couple killed because they forgot to close and ward their windows. An old woman who, confused, had failed to return home by curfew, and was found ghost-touched and blue the next morning. She knew how close that reality was to becoming her own. At night, sometimes, looking out from her bedroom window, Holly could see them. Visitors. Wraiths and Phantasms and Cold Maidens. Just as they were described. Hovering there in the street or trailing slowly by.

Holly’s parents were immigrants. Coming from a more polychronic culture, they had a tendency to take schedules more as guidelines than rigid rules. To make matters worse, they came from a country not yet affected by the Problem. Being people of science, they were naturally skeptical of what they couldn’t see. Or rather, what they were now too old to perceive. Though they abided by the curfew, as it was the law, they did so somewhat grudgingly, haphazardly. Just the other day, her mother had nearly been late coming home.

What if one day they didn’t come home at all?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Holly took a deep breath, looking Ms. Ainsworth straight in the eye, and nodded. “I promise.”

* * *

At first, her parents were merely amused by their young daughter’s insistence on the curfew. Holly wouldn’t let it lie; she brought it up constantly—in the morning, before leaving; at the dinner table; when her parents came to tuck her in.

“Don’t you think the curfew’s important?”

Her parents exchanged bemused looks. “Sure, darling.”

“Sure? Don’t you mean _of course_? It’s the most important thing! You’ve got to follow it!”

“We do follow it, sweetheart,” said her mother, smoothing her pillow.

Her father was shaking his head, chuckling. “Already indoctrinated. My, Holly, what are they teaching in that school of yours? You shouldn’t be so afraid of ghost stories, darling. It’s all hysteria. It’s not that bad. The Government just wants to keep people off the streets.”

Holly sat up in bed, indignant. “Dad, they’re not stories! It’s all true! I’ve seen them!”

Her parents exchanged shocked glances.

“You…see them?” Her mother gazed at her with wide eyes.

Holly nodded. _Finally_ they were getting it.

Her father looked hesitant. “What, exactly, do you see, Holly?”

Holly was only too happy to describe the grotesque figures she’d witnessed carousing in the streets at night. When she finished, her parents looked stunned.

Later, she heard them whispering to each other.

“—do you really think she saw?”

“Maybe we’re putting too much stress on her…”

“The move wasn’t long ago—”

“—last time she had friends over?”

Hurt though she was by their disbelief, Holly was not deterred from her goal. She continued to badger her parents incessantly about the curfew. Slowly but surely, she could see the first cracks of doubt appear in their cavalier attitudes.

* * *

It wasn’t much of a surprise when, a few weeks later, her parents took her to see someone. An older woman; a practicing psychiatrist who’d immigrated from the same country as Holly’s parents years ago. Someone they trusted.

The tests were a bit of the blur. An assistant took notes as Holly touched various psychic artifacts, brought out from locked silver-glass cases in the doctor’s office. She had to fill out a few papers, too. Mostly, Holly simply talked with the doctor. She was nice, with smile lines clustering around her dark eyes, her shiny black curls touched with grey. At the end, she gave her verdict.

“Your daughter is gifted,” she said, smiling down at Holly. Holly smiled back, proud.

“Gifted?” Her father prodded. “Gifted, how, exactly?”

The woman looked back at Holly’s parents. “Talented, I meant to say. She’s got the Sight.”

* * *

Afterwards, she sometimes caught her father peering out the window for long moments, squinting, searching.

“I can’t see them,” he admitted one day, noticing Holly’s gaze.

“I know,” said Holly, solemn. “You’re too old. Only children can see them.”

Her father barked a humorless laugh. “Only children! Oh, what a world.” Catching Holly’s perplexed expression, he shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s go eat dinner.”

* * *

Her parents weren’t quite the same anymore. A kind of fear entered into their every moment, strangled some of their earlier bonhomie. 

But Holly had got her wish. Never again did her parents disregard curfew.

They were safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this is a very self-indulgent project. Personally, I find Holly to be a very curious character. Lucy describes her as a ruthless perfectionist, a person who always appears to advantage, someone who's instantly liked by many people. But when you examine Holly's actions in the book, some of them are a bit weird. Yes, some of it certainly stems from the...rivalry? that Lucy and Holly have going on. But there are some things she does, like sweeping up crumbs _while_ people are eating, that are a bit beyond the purview of social niceties or hygiene. And Holly certainly has teeth, as we saw in that fight.
> 
> So where do these oddities stem from? My guess is insecurity and/or anxiety. Hopefully this exploration of her character makes sense and sheds some light on her, "nonexistent" flaws and all.  
> I confess, I can't clearly recall what it was like to be seven years old, so Holly's seven-year-old self might not be the most accurate reflection of a seven-year-old. Oh well.
> 
> I know I said her parents didn't really believe in the Problem in the beginning. It might seem weird, but I think it could work. I read somewhere that Stroud mentioned the Problem hadn't spread beyond England. So, I feel that immigrants from another country, where life goes on as normal without the Problem, might have trouble accepting it.
> 
> Also, I don't know how realistic having Holly tested for psychic talents in a psychiatrist's office is, but there has to be some mechanism for testing Talents, right? And the books show that, even in England, there are still people who don't believe the Problem is real. So there's got to be something there, right?
> 
> Review please! Reviews are the sustenance upon which I live! :)


	2. Age 11: Cleaning Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to Jonathan Stroud.

### 

Cleaning Up

The thing Holly dreaded had come to pass.

Cautious though her parents were, it seemed that their caution could not be transferred to Holly’s happy-go-lucky uncle, no matter how much they tried to impress upon him the danger that lurked in the darkness.

***

Uncle James was visiting from Switzerland, another country beyond the fell reach of the Problem, attending some sort of conference. He was her father’s brother, through and through. Upon hearing of the curfew, he burst into incredulous laughter.

“Never thought you’d fall for that kind of hoopla, Henry,” he’d said to Holly’s father, chuckling. “Thought you were too discerning, eh Helena?”

Her mother offered a worried smile. “I know it’s seems strange, James, but it really is for the best. We didn’t believe it either, but Holly can actually _see_ them. Isn’t that right, Holly?”

Holly glanced around at the three adult gazes on her. “Um, yes.” Catching her mother’s look, she turned her attention to Uncle James, who gave her a kind smile. “I can see them.” She launched into a description of the Type I she’d seen lurking around the corner bus-stop just last week. 

But when she finished, she could tell he didn’t really believe her. Though his smile was still gentle, it had an edge of politeness to it.

“That’s really interesting, Holly,” he said, before promptly changing the subject.

Later, her parents told her not to worry about it.

“He won’t be in town for long,” her father said. “Just until Friday morning.”

“We’ll keep him out of trouble until then,” her mother said.

They sounded like they were trying to reassure themselves.

Holly, for her part, forgot about it, trusting her parents. She’d just begun first form at a rigorous grammar school, and her days whipped by in a swirl of new classes and friends.

* * *

Thursday was the day of the conference.

Uncle James was up early, already dressed by the time Holly came downstairs, kitted out in her uniform.

“Morning,” he said, passing her some toast.

“Good morning,” Holly replied, glancing at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes until she had to leave. “Is your conference today, Uncle James?”

“That’s right,” he said, buttering his own piece of toast. “It’s a big day.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No.” Registering Holly’s surprise, he laughed. “I don’t need to be, not when the data will talk for me. All I have to do is tell where it leads me.”

“Right.” Holly was used to such expressions, her parents being scientists themselves. She sat down at the breakfast table, spreading marmalade on her toast.

For the next twenty minutes, Holly struggled to scarf down her breakfast as Uncle James made a litany of witty remarks, always waiting for her to take a bite before recommencing his ruthless onslaught of jokes.

“Stop!” she shrieked, guffawing, juice going up her nose. She chanced a glance at the clock and froze. “Oh, no, I’ve got to go!”

“Here,” Uncle James said, looking _almost_ guilty, “take a piece of toast with you.”

Holly grabbed the proffered slice, slung her schoolbag over her arm, and dashed out the door, calling, “Good luck!” over her shoulder.

She never imagined that it would be the last time she would see him.

* * *

Uncle James wasn’t back when she got back from school. Holly didn’t think much of it, climbing the stairs to her bedroom and starting her homework.

But when she came down for dinner at six, he still wasn’t back. Her parents were in the living room, watching worriedly as the shadows gathered themselves around the house.

“He won’t pick up his phone,” muttered her father, “why won’t he pick up?”

At eight, they were truly worried. Night had fallen in full, and no living thing stirred in the streets outside.

“Perhaps he couldn’t get back in time, and he decided to stay in a hotel,” suggested Holly’s mother uneasily.

“I just wish he’d call me back,” said her father.

They stayed like that for a while in the living room, staring futilely into the dark, their empty stomachs weighed with worry. They hadn’t managed to swallow much of their dinner. None of them had the heart to go to bed. Eventually, one by one, they dozed off into a fitful slumber, right there on the sofas, their dinners sitting untouched on the coffee table.

* * *

They were roused in the morning by a brisk knock.

Holly blinked, watching her father rub his eyes and smooth his rumpled shirt as he made for the door. Her mother followed anxiously, pulling her hair back into a messy bun.

“Can we come in, please?”

A man and woman walked into the living room, dressed in neat suits, and perched on the sofa. They offered Holly over-sweet smiles. Holly didn’t smile back, too anxious and tired to act polite.

“I’m Terrence Garrick and this is Amelia Barclay. We’re with DEPRAC’s monitoring services. We have some bad news…”

Her mother and father’s faces were blank as they absorbed what was being said. Holly felt numb. It couldn’t be true. He’d just been here, so full of laughter and life. How…?

Abruptly, Holly’s father jerked to his feet and left the room. Her mother followed. Holly heard them ascend the stairs and made to follow, leaving the man and woman sitting on the sofa, two silent, practiced statues.

But, halfway to the stairs, she paused, hearing the murmur of voices.

“…no sense in all this carrying on. The lot of them should stay out, I say. Why so shocked? If they can’t follow simple rules, they should damn well be prepared to face the consequences…”

“…we’re always the ones picking up after. Why come…if you don’t believe in the Problem?”

“…a right mess…load of bloody paperwork…”

“Look at all this…what’s this, old food? What a dump…”

“…can’t even keep a clean house, much less…”

"...'ve got money, at least...

Holly stood there for an eternity, chest tight, ears burning, eyes watering with furious tears. She wanted to shout, to barge in there and yell at them to get out, but she couldn’t. She stood there, transfixed, as if nailed to the spot.

A moment later, and footsteps were thundering down the stairs. The voices in the living room ceased. Her parents brushed past her, her mother grabbing her hand and squeezing. Holly broke from her trance, trailing back into the living room.

Her father was showing something to them, a photograph. “Is this the man you found?” he was asking. “Are you sure?”

The man and woman were nodding, their lips twisted apologetically. Holly narrowed her eyes at them, at their smooth sympathy.

Her father stepped back, raking a hand through his hair. He sat down.

Holly’s mother stepped forward, conversing with the man and woman in low voices. After a few moments, they nodded, standing, handing over a file folder.

“Sorry for your loss,” the woman murmured as she brushed past Holly toward the front door.

For a few moments, the house was still, silent, the three of them hardly daring to breathe under the crushing weight of grief and shock.

Then, quietly, her father began to cry.

Watching her father sob into his hands, something took root in Holly, a sort of angry conviction.

Before, it had only been a thought, a distant dream. She’d never thought of it seriously, becoming an agent. But now…

 _No one should have to go through this,_ she thought, swiping at her eyes. _No one should have to lose someone like this._

Later, when she was much older, she would realize that her longing for agent-hood wasn’t solely due to a desire to prevent more suffering. Although fighting the Problem was certainly the most important reason, she couldn’t deny that a small part of her was lured by the status that came with the job. Agents commanded a certain dignity, a certain respect. That part of her, bruised by snide comments over her parents’ accents and cruel jokes in the schoolyard, wanted to show them all. Let them laugh, let them scorn her. They would see.

When she realized this, the maturity and distance of years would lead her to feel shame. It was a revelation that she would never disclose to anyone—a revelation that, most days, she tried to forget.

* * *

The funeral was simple, small. Aside from Holly’s family, there were no relatives to be called upon in England. Instead, friends had come to show their support. Some people from school were there.

Holly stood in front of the casket as the minister droned on. Her parents were calm, composed. She did her best to project serenity as well. She tried not to think of Uncle James; if she did, she would cry. Instead, she played with her hair. Her mother had straightened her unruly curls for the first time, and now her hair lay in a shining, flat mass down her back. It felt unnatural.

Later, Katie Clive and some of the other girls from school came up to say hello. For a moment, they stared at her, silent.

“What?” asked Holly.

“Nothing,” said Katie after a moment. “Just…you clean up well.”

Clean up well. 

_Can’t keep a clean house._

“What?”

“Why don’t you ever straighten your hair?” asked another girl. Shilpa, Holly thought her name was.

“Or wear dresses?” prodded Felicity Collins with a barely concealed smirk.

Holly gazed at them, utterly lost.

“Um, we’re sorry for your loss,” Katie said, finally. “We’ll leave you alone.”

Holly watched them go, weaving their way through the crowd back to their mothers.

Was _that_ how people had seen her all along?

* * *

Two months later, Holly began training. Her parents weren’t pleased with her newfound ideas of agenthood. They hoped it was a phase, a passing fancy. She wasn’t allowed to quit school yet; instead, she had to train in her free time. That was fine by her.

By the time she was fourteen, she’d already earned First through Third Grade. Her parents, grudging though they were in their acceptance of her new path, were impressed. On the day she earned her Third Grade, her mother snapped a picture. In it, fourteen-year-old Holly was beaming under the summer sun, clutching her new certificate, her dark hair straight and sleek as silk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I made her parents' names start with the same letter. Cute, isn't it?
> 
> This chapter was a little painful to write, in part because it drew from real life (sort of. I've never experienced anything quite like this). Holly is beginning to run up against societal standards and prejudice. Her feeling of being singled out, especially at such a vulnerable moment in her life, I think leads to her reaction of fear and anxiety, and her desire to conform and claim a little power for herself. I think that her later extreme perfectionism and criticism of others who maybe don't conform as well are a product of the insecurity that begins to form in her. She's afraid of the world in the darkness, and she's afraid she doesn't measure up.
> 
> This is all I have for now. I don't know if I'll write anymore on this. I suppose I could explore her time at Rotwell, maybe, but I'm not sure yet.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	3. Ages 11-14: Rising High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to Jonathan Stroud.  
> Inspiration knocked suddenly, and I couldn't resist answering! I now have more ideas than I know what to do with. Good thing I have a lot of free time now...

### 

Rising High

Her parents were adamant that she not quit school. It was important to them that their daughter was educated. To them, two scientists and academics, the pursuit of knowledge was sacrosanct. Holly valued learning, too, so she didn’t protest. Much. Instead, she stipulated that she would continue school until she earned her Grade Three, and then she would quit to train full time.

“Fine,” her mother relented, “ _if_ you earn your Grade Three, and _if_ a local agency hires you for your Grade Four, then you can quit school. But only then, and not a moment earlier. Until then, you’ve got to maintain your grades.”

Thus was a deal struck.

Holly suspected her parents agreed only because they figured the workload would force her hand, make her give up. It wasn’t easy. Six hours of school every day during the week, then it was off to the local Talent Center to train. Weekends were given over to the Center entirely. At first, training was during daylight hours only. As she grew more skilled, Holly was kept longer, into the night, sent out with teams to do small jobs. And around it all, she had to fit in her homework. (It was here that her lifelong love of strict schedules and sticky notes began.)

Exhausting didn’t begin to cover it. But Holly was determined, not to mention diligent. In school, she continued to score high marks and was well-liked by her teachers. In training, she was quick to learn and admired for her tenacity.

* * *

Talent Centers were a DEPRAC initiative, intended to hone the skills of psychic children and ready them for work. There were several in each London borough. Mostly, they trained children for the Night-Watch. After all, agencies weren’t going to squander resources training kids they couldn’t use.

Holly was not, however, alone. Plenty of others were, like her, balancing school and training in the hope of one day becoming an agent. She became fast friends with some of them, able to empathize only too well with their difficulties: the unique trials and tribulations of Talented children with protective parents.

“Honestly,” she lamented one day, to sympathetic frowns, “why don’t they get it? All I want is to be an agent, but they won’t just let me. They’re holding out hope I’ll change my mind, but I keep telling them I won’t!”

“They’re probably just afraid,” said Connie Li sagely. “I know mine are. What can you expect?”

Sandeep Mehta nodded. “Yeah, they’re all the same. My parents were agents back in the day. You’d think they’d understand, but it’s like they can’t stand the idea of me being one. Hypocritical, _I_ say, but of course they won’t listen.”

“Typical adults,” scoffed Erik Larsson, shaking his head.

They fell silent, brooding over the truth of this rejoinder.

“They’ll accept it, in the end,” Clara Roberts concluded, “Adults always do. Can’t get by without kids like us, can they? It’s the way of the world now, whether they like it or not.”

* * *

Though the Talent Center couldn’t really offer much in the way of field training, it taught most everything essential to an agent’s practical repertoire. How to take readings, weigh salt and iron and lavender, chuck a flare, wield a rapier, perform basic first aid, and (of course) make perfect tea in double-quick time. Occasionally, the Grade Two children went out on short missions, ridding the neighborhood of a weak Glimmer or Stone Knocker. In less than two years, Holly had made progress enough to join them, despite her late start.

Her fast advancement was more a product of sheer willpower and discipline than brilliance. Though her Talents were sharp yet, and she was fit enough, she lacked the hardened watchfulness of many of the Night-Watch bound kids. Her rapier-work was okay, not exceptional; the little ballet she’d been not-unwillingly coaxed into at age four was now coming in handy with her footwork. Certainly she was leagues better than Nancy Lornick, who had an unfortunate tendency to part ways with her sword whenever she swung it in any direction, so that anyone within a three meter radius had to throw themselves flat against the floor in the interest of self-preservation.

Holly’s real skill, though, lay with the less glamorous bits. Classification. Stratagem. Research. In these, she excelled.

Her utter dedication, however, meant that she soon repaired the gaps in her skillset, and was well on her way to becoming a well-rounded agent. The fencing master, in a rare instance of praise, declared that she would be a credit to any agency. She accrued the admiration and envy alike of her peers, wherever she was.

She was happy—more than happy! Jubilant. Electrified. A girl queen, ascendant, transcendent.

Her parents noticed her triumphant glow and were glad for her, worried though they were about her long hours, the risks, the danger they now knew all too well to be real. By now, they also knew that Holly would not be swayed from her goal. It was far too late for that kind of intervention. They could only watch her meteoric rise through the ranks, the predictable path of a comet traversing its fateful ellipse.

Then, finally, the awaited day came.

Grade Three certification.

* * *

It was the summer after third form.

Holly had earned her Grade Two several months ago and had been accompanying the other Grade Two children on nightly jaunts to small, localized hauntings to practice defensive maneuvers and containment strategy. To this end, they were divided into random teams. On that particular July night, Holly was with Connie Li, Steve Hartwell, Deep Contractor, and Nancy Lornick. Their assigned adult supervisor, a Mrs. Sandra Reznick, called in sick suddenly, unable to make it. It was decided they would go anyway. All five of them had some field experience, and after all the case was only a standard Type I.

The Center was careful never to send its teams to deal with anything more dangerous than a Type I. In the past months, Holly had, along with her peers, summarily dispatched a slew of Gibbering Mists, Pale Stenches, Lurkers, and Grey Hazes. The most dangerous Visitor she could claim to have confronted was a Stalker. A peculiarly enraged Floating Bride came a close second. Tonight was to be no different. According to the case description, they were to deal with a Lurker lingering on the third floor of a local clinic. Their research yielded nothing to the contrary. The clinic was new, engaged in a profitable dermatology practice. By all accounts, it had a sterling reputation. No recent deaths. Nothing old that they could find, either.

Lurkers were a common Type I apparition. Generally, they were harmless, wispy things that liked to loiter in dark spaces, shadows. They rarely approached the living, contenting themselves instead with spreading an unpleasant miasma of chilly unease and creeping fear.

They arrived early, around 5 PM. The summer sun was high in the sky, limning the tall glass-front buildings with gold. The streets were packed: taxis honking, children playing, adults getting off work, families shopping, tourists strolling—all enjoying a precious, long afternoon.

A receptionist in pale pink scrubs intercepted them at the entrance, ushered them quickly past curious customers to a back room. She asked them tersely to wait, then disappeared before they could respond.

They glanced at each other, shrugging, unsurprised. This was always how it went. Hauntings were bad for business, after all. It was why they were there, instead of a pack of agents in their instantly recognizable uniforms. They took the time to double-check their supplies, tighten their rapiers. Steve Hartwell amused them with a series of truly terrible jokes. Outside, the sun continued its languid descent.

An hour later, the door swung open and a woman in a white coat stepped through. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties—it was hard to tell, given her youthful demeanor. She had smooth, glowing skin, a gleaming row of teeth, and a gloss of long chestnut hair falling loose over her stethoscope. A walking testimonial. “Sorry for the wait. Thanks for coming,” she said warmly, shaking each of their hands in turn. “We really appreciate it. I’m Dr. Theresa Wright, one of the dermatologic surgeons on the third floor.”

They recognized the name. “You’re the one who filed the report,” said Connie.

“That’s right. I used to have a bit of Sight, myself. Not much left, I’m afraid, but I can still sense a little. Anyway, I started to notice these sensations a few weeks ago. Malaise, creeping fear, some miasma, you know what it’s like.”

“Were you an agent?” Holly asked as she produced a notepad from her jacket pocket, surprised at the technical terms Dr. Wright was using. Most clients weren’t nearly half as articulate.

The doctor flashed a smile. “No, but I’ve always admired your profession. _True Hauntings_ is still my guilty pleasure.”

The five of them exchanged surreptitious glances. Most adults were fearful of hauntings, and, by extension, fearful of psychic children and their profession. There were a rare few, however, who _weren’t_ frightened. This could be a good thing; after all, a good case description could make all the difference when it came to classification and, ultimately, survival. Unfortunately, though, a lot of these individuals were more than just unafraid; they were _excited_ by the prospect of being in proximity to a haunting. They were the agent hopefuls who’d never had enough Talent and were now all grown up. Often, they were prone to exaggeration and all too sure of their own 'expertise'. In short, this could all turn out to be nothing.

Holly continued, notepad at the ready. “Mm, I see…And did you happen to glimpse anything, Dr. Wright? We’ve read the report, of course, but we’d like to hear it directly from you. Any small detail could help.”

“Hmm…Why, yes, as a matter of fact. It was about two weeks ago. I’d stayed a little later than usual, and it was getting a bit dark. The edges of the room had gone all shadowy, you know. I was doing some paperwork when, all of a sudden, I felt this _tremendous_ chill. I looked up and,” here her voice dropped to a significant whisper, “there, in the corner, I _saw_ it. A quivering, dark figure. Just gazing back at me.”

“Gazing? You mean to say you actually saw its eyes?”

“Oh, no, no, no. I meant it as a figure of speech, you understand. I could just _feel_ its regard, and do you know, for a few moments, I was ghost-stuck!”

They gazed at her.

“Um. Do you mean…ghost- _locked_?” Holly ventured. 

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“Right.” The five of them avoided looking at each other. “And, just to clarify, _which_ corner of the room was it exactly, that you saw this figure?”

“Oh, I’ll show you now! The third floor’s been closed today, for you, so you can come get set up. Follow me!”

They took an elevator up from the lobby. The third floor was a posh, modern medical suite, with marbled floors, pristine white exam chairs, and abstract art hanging on the walls. Despite its exclusivity, the space was pervaded with the same heavy smell of disinfectant common to all medical establishments.

“There,” said the good doctor, pointing at a back corner, farthest away from the windows and near a set of closets, “that’s where I saw it.”

Holly made a note of it, then folded her notepad away. “Right. Thanks very much.” Already, the team was getting to work, assembling a circle for protection and laying iron filings in a boundary in front of the indicated corner.

When the doctor made no move to leave, she added, “We can take it from here.”

Dr. Wright, mercifully, seemed to pick up on her meaning and, despite a brief hesitation, left without protest, wishing them luck.

* * *

Sunset was at 9:10 GMT. Around 7:30, the crowds in the street below began to thin. By 8, their little team were the only ones left in the clinic building. At 8:15, they took tea and shut off the lights. At 8:25, Nancy thought she could perceive a low rattling hum beneath the dull whir of electricity. At 8:30, they began their sweep, splitting the floor into sections and taking temperatures at evenly spaced points, in accordance with the Fittes-Rotwell grid method. At 8:45, curfew bells began to toll outside. At 9:00, they discussed their findings. Faint malaise, temperature fluctuating a couple of degrees—that was all. Nothing definitive.

Sunset came and went. Shadows collected in the corners of the room. Anticipation built.

Nothing happened.

No drop in temperature, no malaise, not even a hint of creeping fear. Even the low hum Nancy thought she’d heard was gone.

At 11:45, Deep Contractor suggested what they were all thinking: “She’s made the whole thing up.”

“It’s early yet,” said Connie Li, without much conviction. “We’ll just have to wait it out.”

Waiting, of course, is the worst part of psychic investigation. There’s no telling when a Visitor might choose to manifest. Constant vigilance is thus key to survival.

By 12:30 AM, they’d settled into a game of Cheat.

“Pass…” sighed Connie, down to two cards, having been called out one too many times. “Your turn, Holly.”

But Holly wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she was watching a patch of shadow towards the back of the room. Something about it made her instincts prickle. It was darker than dark, with a surreal velvet quality that set her nerves on edge.

“Holly?”

She shook her head. “Do you see that?” Was it _moving_?

The others clustered around her, game abandoned, trying to see what she was looking at.

“Huh,” exhaled Steve. “Guess she wasn’t making it up.”

It was a hazy blotch of darkness, vaguely humanoid, wrapped in shadows, quivering. Just as the doctor had described. Now that they were aware of its presence, they noticed the chill in the air, the tingle of fear poking at their senses, the insidious torpor induced by malaise.

For Lurkers, containment was a fairly easy business. Iron filings were enough to hem in the apparition until the Source could be found. They’d already laid an arc of filings out in front of the manifestation, and it seemed to be holding. The team fanned out, searching for likely Sources, rummaging through closets and drawers.

But Holly paused.

Something wasn’t right.

It was _so_ hazy, _so_ timid, _so_ fragile. A faint twitching blemish. A textbook Lurker. Except, since when was any real visitation quite so perfect?

“Guys…” she called softly, “There’s something about this…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s a bit…weird?”

They stopped, glancing between her and the faint form in the corner, frowning.

“Not really,” said Connie.

“Classic Lurker,” agreed Deep.

“A little _too_ classic?”

No one agreed.

“What else could it be?” asked Nancy.

As there was no tangible argument she could provide, Holly was forced to acquiesce.

***

Around two in the morning, Connie Li gave a triumphant cry. “Look at this!” She was pointing to a plastic box labeled 'Lost and Found,' its surface shimmering with a thin sheen of frost. “It’s _got_ to be in here!” 

She heaved it down from the shelf it sat on, began rifling through it. The rest of them crossed the room to join her.

That’s when it happened.

A darting movement in the corner of their eyes. As one, they whirled, drawing their rapiers. Nancy screamed.

“Duck!” yelled Steve.

Yelping, Holly threw herself to the ground, feeling a breeze stir her hair as something went zinging through the air inches above her. Something clanged. Moments later, a psychic impact wave roared over her, dragging her backwards across the floor.

Silence fell. Cautiously, they stood back up.

“Nice one, Nancy,” laughed Deep, brushing spilled salt from his trousers.

Nancy grinned. For once, her misfire had done good rather than harm.

“What _was_ that?” asked Connie.

“Look!” Holly raised a shaking finger.

Already it was reforming, even after being pierced through by a silver-coated rapier, something no Type I should have been able to do. And this time, it wasn’t playing at weakness. A vaguely human figure began to solidify, darkness roiling outward from it—a vast, velvet black mass.

They stared at it, frozen with horror. They knew what it was. A Dark Specter. A powerful and rare Type II, which could swiftly, sneakily expand to engulf an entire room within minutes. Few survived an encounter with one of these.

As they watched, tendrils of darkness began to bubble into a perverse imitation of a funnel cloud, the topmost tips reaching out toward them…

Some deep-seated instinct jolted Holly from her stupor. Ignoring the cries of her team-mates, she seized a long length of reinforced iron chain from a kit bag and, whipping it overhead, raced forward, _toward_ the manifestation. Her pulse pounded in her ears; her mouth was dry. Just as she seemed fated to collide with one of the searching tendrils, she threw herself to her knees, sliding along the polished marble floor, and spun out the chain, lassoing it around the legs of the vague figure so it formed a makeshift circle on the ground, putting out a hand to stop her forward momentum before she slid into the boundary herself.

Her ears popped. The seething darkness shrank, forced into the limits of the wonky chain circle.

But already, it had found the gap between the ends of the chain and was slowly bleeding out of it…

“The box!” she cried. “Seal it! _All_ of it!”

Someone reacted, wrapping a silver net around the Lost and Found box. The dark mass shuddered, warped, then finally disappeared with a crack of sound.

* * *

All five of them who had been there that day were promoted to Grade Three, even little Nancy Lornick, who was as hopeless as ever with a rapier.

For her quick thinking, Holly was especially commended. Their supervisors promised to write her stellar letters of reference for her interviews.

Her parents had been disconcerted to hear about the incident with the Dark Specter but were proud to hear of Holly’s actions. For the first time, they felt hopeful. Maybe being an agent _was_ their daughter’s calling. Maybe they weren’t allowing her to walk to her death.

They were nevertheless tearful when she brought home her laminated certificate.

“Are you _sure_ ,” asked her mother, wiping at her eyes as she put away the camera, “that this is what you want to do?” They were standing in the cool shade of their back garden; her mother had insisted on a photo: Holly clutching her framed Grade Three against a sunlit backdrop of geraniums and lavender.

“Yes, Mum,” said Holly, soft. “I’m sure.”

Her parents hugged her then, their faces damp, full of both pride and trepidation. Their little Holly was all grown up.

Her Grade Three certificate acquired, there was just one thing left for Holly to do before she could quit school.

Find a job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucy started when she was 8 and earned Grade Three at 11, which was considered fast. Holly seems to have done the same in the same amount of time while still attending school; it makes sense she was good, since Rotwell hired her. In fact, pretty sure Holly herself says that she was "quite good" at one point. Her shakiness in the books is due to trauma rather than a lack of skill.
> 
> So I realized after some Googling that the term 'form' is apparently antiquated in Britain, and 'Year (#)' is more commonly used nowadays. I used 'form' because I feel like I've seen it used in a lot of books, also it sounds cool ha ha...Also, Google tells me that school days in the UK are typically 5-6 hours long? I am used to 7 hour school days, so I couldn't quite bring myself to write 'five hours of school'. I went with six. 
> 
> I'm not sure if the books mention how Night Watch kids are trained. If they did...oh well. In my mind, Talent Centers train Night Watch kids and some agents. Not Sensitives, since all they do is tell whether a place is haunted or not. It's pretty bad that the Center promoted all of them, even though they're not all good enough, but they had to do something to cover up the fact that they messed up and endangered the kids.
> 
> I always wondered about agents who come from 'normal' families. Lockwood lost his family young, and Lucy is essentially forced to work by her mother. Also, the books seem to imply the toll being an agent and leaving school takes on their education (Lockwood on irony vs sarcasm, Lucy occasionally not knowing the meaning of a big word). Holly seems to have had more of an education (the impression of refinement we get, the fact that she knows French that one time...though that wasn't really difficult French), so this is what I think happened.
> 
> As you can see, Holly's now developed a greater sense of self-worth and confidence in her abilities.
> 
> Another chapter is on the way, and boy, it's going to be a doozy!
> 
> Review please! Tell me what you think!


	4. Age 14: Fitting In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to Jonathan Stroud.  
> Content Warning: Mild instance of workplace harassment.

### 

Fitting In

The glossy, old-school grandeur of the Fittes House foyer was every bit as intimidating as it was intended to be. Holly sat on one of the low, plush sofas, portfolio clutched in hand, having been directed to wait by a bright-eyed receptionist. Every few minutes, her eyes strayed to the clock on the wall, its face embossed with the Fittes emblem: a rearing unicorn holding aloft the Lantern of Truth. She’d arrived for her interview half an hour early, and since then she’d been watching the time left tick slowly, inevitably away. The sharp, fresh scent of lavender polish clogged her nostrils as she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

She could do this.

A door in the back of the room swept open, and a team of young Fittes agents marched through. Each sported the familiar spotless, silver uniform; each had a shining, Italianate rapier secured against their sides. The youngest of them, a tiny, sharp-chinned girl with a mass of long blond hair, couldn't have been more than ten years old. The oldest, a slender, red-haired boy, looked to be a few years older than Holly herself—sixteen, maybe seventeen. He seemed to be the group’s unspoken leader; the others fell into step behind him, flanking him naturally. Holly instantly envied his easy confidence. He was saying something; she was too far away to hear what. The others listened intently, hanging on to his every word. As she watched, the whole group erupted into laughter as they strode past the bust of Marissa Fittes in the center of the foyer. The boy smirked, clearly pleased. Before she could look away, he turned his head, catching her eye. A pale eyebrow arched; his lips curved. He seemed to preen. Her eyes widened as she caught his meaning, but it was too late to correct the boy's conclusion. Flushing, Holly tore her eyes away, turning them to the portfolio in her lap, and pretended to be absorbed in reading her own CV. Still, she was hyper-aware of the group’s slow, swaggering progress across the gleaming marble floors. Even after they’d exited through the double doors at the front, her embarrassment was slow to fade.

“Ms. Munro?”

Her head jerked up. A smiling receptionist motioned to her, nodding to a serious-eyed girl in yet another Fittes uniform. “Agent Pagonis will see you now. Cindy here will take you.”

Cindy led her efficiently through a maze-like series of dim corridors behind the foyer. They passed dozens of other silver-jacketed children, rushing around with casefiles or trailing in the wake of their adult supervisors. At one point, they passed a training room. Holly heard the swicking _chink_ of rapiers slicing through air; she caught a glimpse of an older boy and girl as, expressions fierce, they faced off against adults in protective gear pretending to be Visitors.

Finally, they stopped by a closed door—cherrywood, polished so it gleamed, hardly distinguishable from the dark paneling of the corridor walls. The interview room. Holly pressed her palms against the skirt of her best dress in a discreet motion, trying to rid them of their dampness.

Cindy gave her a small, commiserating smile. Perhaps she was remembering her own interview. “Good luck.” Then she was pacing away down the corridor, another silver silhouette in the throng.

Holly took a breath, smoothed her hair, then opened the door and walked through.

* * *

Agent Pagonis, as it turned out, was not an adult supervisor. He was a boy no older than her, handsome, with a sweep of bronze hair that glimmered in the room’s yellow light and a cocksure mien. He grinned—a brash, mocking splay of the lips—at her ill-concealed confusion. “What, you thought they’d send an _adult_ for this? You’ve only got Grade Three certification. Supervisors only interview fully trained agents. I’ve got to say,” he added, giving her an appreciative once-over, “being an interviewer isn’t so bad. Usually it’s such a bore, but I’m starting to see it’s got benefits.”

Holly ignored his meaningful look, pressing her lips into a semblance of a smile as she sat down across from him in a leather office chair, extending her hand to shake. “Holly Munro, pleasure.”

“Lucas Pagonis. The pleasure’s _all_ mine.”

The boy gave her an oily smile that was clearly meant to be winsome. Holly’s own polite smile didn’t waver, even as his hand lingered a beat too long on hers. She passed him her portfolio. He glanced through it, a glib execution of a required ritual, then flicked it aside.

“So, tell me, Holly—can I call you Holly?—what’s your Talent?”

“Er, Touch.” Instantly, she regretted it. The crude innuendo the boys at school flung around was nothing compared to his wide, sly smile. Hastily, she continued, “Sight, too, in equal measure. A bit of Listening, but it's not as good.”

“Right. Right. And you want to join Fittes because?”

Relieved at the appearance of this normal question, Holly gave a flawless, spirited reply. “Fittes House is a premier psychic investigation agency with a long tradition of excellence. The Fittes method of containment is noted as being _the_ most effective tool against the Problem, with first priority given to classification, followed by a series of systematic steps to neutralize the Source based on its specific Type. What’s more, your resources and quality of training are unmatched, and that’s reflected in the quality of your results. You’re unique, and I want to be part of that uniqueness. Given the strength of my Talents and my qualifications, I feel I can contribute significantly to your already esteemed record.”

She clasped her hands in her lap, straight-backed, proud. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

“Very nice. Is that all?”

Holly faltered. “Er…”

“No other _especial_ reasons? No _especial_ persons you’d like to work with?” Pagonis smiled, expectant.

Holly gazed at him. Was he—? No, he couldn’t be.

Could he?

“I’m sure there are some agents who would _love_ to work with _you_. Is there really _nothing_ you can think of?”

He was!

She fiddled with her necklace, huffed a little laugh. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, come now, love,” he said with a sickening, knowing wink, “don’t play coy. It doesn’t become you. Really, no one you can think of?”

A cold weight sunk in her stomach even as livid heat scorched through her cheeks. Below the table, her hands strangled the fabric of her skirt.

“No,” she said, looking him in the eyes, voice crisp, “Definitely not.”

A shadow crossed the boy’s angular features. He regarded her for a long moment, then turned his gaze to his clipboard, which had heretofore been neglected. He jotted something down.

The questions continued, blessedly standard, but the agent’s manner had performed a swift, complete about-face. Pagonis spoke to her as if every word were a great chore, as if the pain of expelling them was equal to that of his very entrails being torn out by some sharp-beaked bird of prey.

Finally, they came to an end. Holly sat there, waiting for—something. Anything. A dismissal. A remark. An insult, even. But Pagonis would give her nothing. He sat there, behind the gleaming expanse of the mahogany table, silent, scrupulous, scribbling away, refusing to look at her.

It fell to her to break the silence. “So…”

He looked up, cold. “So.”

“Um…” Holly didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t just leave. She glanced around the room, touching a hand to her neck. “Well…”

“You want some advice?”

Startled, her gaze shot back to him. He was lounging back in his chair, papers abandoned, arms crossed behind his head. “What?”

Pagonis shook his head pityingly. “You won’t get anywhere with that kind of attitude. Take it from me.”

Her eyebrows rocketed upward. “ _Attitude?_ ”

“Yes. You’ve been very cold to me, Holly. Though I suppose you’d prefer _Miss Munro_ ,” he said this last bit sneeringly, as if it was some great affront. “I could’ve been good to you, I could’ve helped you on your way. To treat me so coldly, without any reason, is the outside of enough. You’ve got the qualifications, I’ll give you that, but your manner needs work. You want to be a team player, love. Fittes is all about teamwork.” Pagonis paused, leaned forward. “Tell you what,” he drawled, his eyes flickering over her, insolent, “we can forget all that. Start over on the same team. But you’ve got to give me more, Holly. Can’t you do that? You _want_ to work here, don’t you?” He sat back, watching her, like some smarmy, slimy imitation of a god, sure of his omnipotence and oh-so magnanimous.

Holly goggled at him. Sly intimations, brazen smiles, playing hot and cold—that was one thing. But this?

This was the last straw.

She shot to her feet, white-hot with rage, jabbing a finger in his direction. “How _dare_ you! How _dare_ you cheapen me like that? You _disgusting_ little creep! I’m a trained professional, not some fawning little girl here to coddle your overblown ego! You’re a disgrace!”

She stared at him, eyes wild, breathing hard, half of a mind to leap over the table and wring the boy’s miserable neck.

“Cripes, just look at you,” Pagonis croaked, voice flat, drained of all bravado. Ugly blotches of color flared high on his tawny cheeks. He cleared his throat, as if trying to summon back his vocal swank. “Yep,” he continued, spiteful, “Like I said, an attitude problem. Good thing we’re not hiring you.” Seeming to intuit Holly’s visions of asphyxiation, he clutched his clipboard to his chest like a shield.

He gave a satisfying flinch when Holly made a sudden movement toward him. Snatching up her portfolio, she pinned him with one last glare before sweeping out, head held high, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Holly put the incident at Fittes House out of her mind, rightfully labeling everything Lucas Pagonis had said as a load of tripe. She continued with her interviews, at Tamworth, Grimble, Tendy & Sons. Nowhere did she encounter anyone as offensive as Pagonis. The interviews she had there were fine, even pleasant, if bland. Agents were impressed with her credentials, with her quick progress under the continued burden of school.

Despite this, she was rejected time after time.

When she asked why, no one could give her a straight answer. In one instance, a Tamworth agent mumbled that it was because she didn’t have enough fieldwork.

“Fieldwork?” Holly repeated. “But that doesn’t make any sense! I’ve been training part-time at a Talent Center. Grade Three’s as far as they go. That’s _why_ I’m interviewing, to begin training full-time for fieldwork and gain Grade Four at a proper agency.”

The girl turned bright red and stared at a point somewhere to Holly's right, mumbling something incoherent.

The parade of rejections began to take their toll. Doubt began to creep in. Was it something wrong with her? Had Pagonis in fact had a point? Was it to do with her attitude?

_You want to be a team player._

She shook it off every time.

But, as she stood before the glittering glass offices of the Rotwell Agency, steeling herself for her last interview, her doubt, her fear, her feelings of inadequacy crashed back over her. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t be rejected again. Wasn’t she good enough? Wasn’t she agent material?

_Your manner needs work._

Well, two could play at that game.

***

The Rotwell agent was a tall, lanky, blond-haired boy. Not much older than her. Andrew was his name. A friendly sort, if a bit gawky. Walking into the spacious, sunlit room, Holly smiled warmly, shook his hand, and complimented his tie. Through the course of the interview, she was bright, attentive, laughing at his awkward jokes, slipping in compliments here and there.

For someone like her, to whom brown-nosing had so far been an alien artifice, this was more than simple amiability. This was a _performance_ , and she carried it with grace, even as she quashed her own discomfort.

For his part, Andrew seemed a bit taken aback. He wasn’t used to this sort of attention, she could tell, but he warmed to it quickly. Soon they were chatting along like old friends.

At the end of the interview, he leaned across the table, a conspiratorial grin on his face. Taking his cue, she leaned in too, smiling, always smiling.

“This might seem a bit weird,” he began, and she braced herself, “but I can’t help asking—is it true? That you gave some Fittes agent interviewing you what for?”

She stared at him. “How did you—?”

Andrew sat back, eyeing her with a new respect. “Wow! I’d never have suspected it, nice girl like you. Punched him square in the gut, did you? Right on. Those Fittes rats had it coming.”

“ _Punch_ him? I—I didn’t! I only…only yelled at him. A bit. For good reason!”

He shrugged, smirking. “Well, whatever you did, we’re all impressed.”

 _We?_ What? Pagonis seemed hardly the type to advertise being dressed down by a girl… “Thanks. But. Um. How do you know about it, anyway?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you know? You’ve been the talk of the inter-agency grapevine. You’re sort of implicitly blacklisted. That’s why no one else will hire you.”

She reeled. That insufferable little toad! That cowardly, lying menace, _how_ could he—

Wait.

“Um. No one _else_?”

The boy’s grin was wide. “The minute we heard about what you did to that hapless Fittes flunky, we had a place ready for you. Rotwell needs your kind of fire. And well, you’ve got a great attitude. You’ll fit right in with us.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call him _hapless_ ,” muttered Holly, but she was beaming ear to ear. “Wow. Thanks _so_ much.”

“No, no,” said Andrew, pumping her hand, “Thank _you_.”

* * *

Another person might have brushed it off, chalked the whole affair up to one boy’s fragile ego—which was, in fact, true—but Holly took it as a lesson. After all, her Rotwell interview had been the smoothest one yet. Even if they had, as Andrew had said, been holding a spot for her, she couldn’t deny that her bright, friendly façade had made things flow easier.

That wasn’t all she’d learned. Lashing out in anger, however justified, was unproductive. As she would discover, there were other, subtler ways to channel such emotions. An almost-ambiguous snide remark here, a certain look there—these were much more effective. Even better, doing it all with a smile on her face made her unimpeachable in the eyes of most. As for those who never liked her—well, they could take it as they would. She didn’t care.

It wasn’t enough to be sincere, diligent, kind-hearted. There were unsavory people in the world, and one had to have claws enough to deal with them. What was the saying? A photograph was worth a thousand words? Holly was inclined to agree.

Image had power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, inter-agency rivalry for the win!
> 
> Fun fact: Pagonis = peacock in Greek. Was it far-fetched for a 14 year-old to be such a creep? Maybe, maybe not. Holly should have reported him to Fittes HR, but, being young and blindsided, she didn't. She might tell her parents about it at some point though.
> 
> The part where she gets caught staring wasn't meant to read as romantic, though you can certainly read it that way if you like. I intended it to be more Holly being all: Wow, look at those Fittes agents go! Will that be _me_? And then she's hilariously misconstrued. Of course, it's quickly overshadowed by what happens next and Holly probably wouldn't remember it later.
> 
> I think this in part helps explain her putting up with Lucy's behavior for so long and her passive aggressiveness in response (which neither Lockwood or George seem to notice). What do you think?
> 
> Also, I'm starting to realize that this is becoming almost unfortunate event after unfortunate event so...I'll try to work in some light chapters here and there in the future.


	5. Ages 14-15: Finding Home

### 

Finding Home

While the overcrowded Talent Center had given its Second Grade children more free range than might have been appropriate, the Rotwell Agency was far more careful with its agents. During her first few months there, Holly was made to participate in brutal, exhaustive training sessions that rubbed her nerves raw. Every minute error—in timing, in judgment, in temperament—was scrutinized intently by the adult supervisors, and would lead to further, focused training with the goal of ensuring that such a mistake was never committed again. Rapier-work was of particular interest in these extensive sessions. Holly’s skill with a rapier, while nothing to jeer at, was not quite up to Rotwell standards. As a result, there was many a day when she stumbled home after training in a post-adrenaline fog, sporting bruises from strikes she had failed to parry.

The Rotwell Agency provided its agents and agent-trainees with lodgings not far from its offices on the Strand. The agency had bought up a number of buildings sometime in the late seventies or early eighties, by which time public opinion on the Problem had solidified into horrified acceptance and business had really started to boom. The buildings were then redeveloped into apartments. The process had taken several years, but by the end of the nineties, it had become the norm for Rotwell’s multitude of agents to reside in company housing. Agency housing was nothing to scoff at; Rotwell housing was not only conveniently located, but was quite modern, had many amenities, and was in a fashionable area of London.

Upon being hired, Holly was automatically offered the option of company housing. She had accepted. It was a practical decision. As an agent who would be reporting to the agency at all hours of the night, it would be far simpler to reside as close to the offices as possible. Not to mention, the housing complex retained a fleet of night cabs to ferry agents back and forth between home and headquarters, which made it doubly attractive. Her parents agreed that it made sense, although they were sorry to see her go. She promised to visit them often, and within the week had packed all necessary belongings and moved into her new flat.

She had two flatmates: Lillian Kim and Christine Holquist. Christine was a timid girl of thirteen years, with reddish-blond hair in a perpetual ponytail and large grey eyes. She had started training at Rotwell when she was eight and had earned her Grade Three three months ago. Lillian, meanwhile, was sixteen years old and fully trained. She wore her dark hair in a somewhat severe bob and, unlike Christine, was naturally gregarious, occasionally abrasive. However, she would sometimes lapse into long, troubled silences, retreating inward to some place that no one else could reach. Some months into her training, Holly learned that Lillian had been part of an operation at Whitehall that had gone wrong. Something to do with Wraiths. Two agents had died.

Lillian and Christine were good to her. They introduced Holly to their teammates and offered advice on training. Ground rules were set down and soon they fell into an easy camaraderie. But despite their growing closeness, neither Christine nor Lillian would broach the subject of their previous flatmate. Holly had heard from senior agents during training that her room had previously been occupied by one Grace Morgan—a fifteen-year-old agent who had been killed in action scarcely a month ago.

She wondered why her flatmates never spoke about Grace. It didn’t take long for her to find out.  


* * *

It was a Sunday evening in early autumn, and they were sitting in the common room. Lillian was knitting a fluffy blue and gold striped scarf. Christine was reading a book. Holly, having ruthlessly scrubbed the dishes to within an inch of their lives, was stretched out on the sofa and trying to ignore the nasty soreness in her muscles, which were alternately strained or bruised from training. She sank further into the sofa, trying to alleviate the pain in her back, and absentmindedly flicked through a catalogue her mother had sent her…she needed to pick something out for her dad’s birthday and…what _was_ that?

Holly sat up. She had distinctly felt something poking her spine. She reached behind her and dug around for a bit before producing a small notebook, which had been half-trapped behind the sofa cushion. It was leather-bound and somewhat worn, the pages fraying at the edges.

“Does this belong to either of you?” she asked, holding it up.

Christine and Lillian glanced up and simultaneously froze. There was a beat of silence.

“Grace,” said Christine with a glance at Lillian. “It belonged to Grace. Our old flatmate.”

“Oh,” said Holly. Quickly, she set the book down on the coffee table. The three of them regarded it.

“I’ll deal with it,” murmured Lillian at last. “I’ll make sure her parents get it back.”

Holly gazed at her, concerned. “Are you sure? I can—”

“ _I said I’d deal with it!_ ”

Holly flinched. She’d never heard Lillian so…wild-eyed. As she watched, the older girl swiped the notebook from the table and stalked out of the common room. A thud shook the sudden silence as the bedroom door slammed behind her.

“Er,” said Christine, “don’t mind her. She was upset, she didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Right…” said Holly, gazing at the scarf Lillian had been knitting, now discarded on the floor. “Were they close then? Her and…Grace?”

“No. They fought all the time, actually. Couldn’t stand each other. Grace was going to change rooms because of it.”

Holly frowned. “So then why…”

Christine bit her lip. “You’ve heard of the case at Whitehall?”

Holly nodded.

“Then you know that two of her teammates died that night. But that wasn’t all. Grace died that same week. She’d been ghost-touched and didn’t know it, didn’t get an adrenaline shot. She got back and went to bed. We didn’t realize. Lillian found her. All that death, all at once…it changed her. Maybe for the better, overall. She’s nicer than she used to be a couple of months ago.”

“Oh,” said Holly faintly. All of a sudden, she felt quite cold.

“She’s never come back. Grace, I mean. Not here, at least. You don’t need to worry.”

Holly looked up, startled. “No, that’s not…it’s just…” But she couldn’t find the words. In the end, they just sat there, staring into space together.

“I think I’m going to bed,” said Christine after a while.

Holly mustered a wan smile and bid her goodnight. She lay there for a long time, flipping sightlessly through the store catalogue. But in the end, images of pretty dresses and sleek ties did nothing to fill the new hollowness in her heart, and when she finally did go to bed, it took a long time for her to succumb to sleep.

* * *

“Parry! Again! Where’s your riposte? Jump! Good—no, don’t drop your arm like that! Light on your feet, that’s it…”

Holly panted, bringing her rapier up again and again as she tried to block the silver blur intent on getting past her guard. Sweat dripped into her eyes, and her shirt clung wetly to her back. Leaping to the side to avoid a swipe, she locked eyes with Laurens, who grinned fiercely, barely winded.

Supervisor John Laurens was a man well into his thirties, with wrinkles around his dark eyes. Despite the claims age had made on his hairline, his rapier work was as agile as ever, as evidenced by the walloping he was currently doling out to Holly.

“Right!” Holly lunged but didn’t quite escape the thwack of the rapier against her shin guard.

“Parry!” Holly brought her rapier up to block a series of quick, forceful blows, her arms shaking against the onslaught. But she’d raised her sword too high in doing so, and suddenly a line of silver was arcing past her arms and delivering a solid thump to her legs, making her reel backwards. As she tried to recover her equilibrium, Laurens struck her rapier out of her loosened grip and pointed his own sword in her direction. Holly dropped to her knees, gasping.

“Getting better, Munro,” he said, already pacing away. “Keep practicing with Sawyer. I’ll see you again next week. Richard, you’re up!”

Slowly, Holly peeled herself off the floor of the training room, trying not to cringe as she felt sweat starting to cool against her skin. She fastened her rapier to her belt, then exited the training room, heading straight for the showers.

It was February. She’d joined Rotwell in early August, and the past five months had been a blur of training. She was proud of the progress she had made. When she had arrived, she could barely hold out for ten minutes against Laurens. Now, she could spar for an hour at least, even if she could never manage to come away unscathed.

But what had made her happiest these past months was her team.

The Grade Three trainees had been assigned their teams back in October, and since then, Holly and her team had gone on a number of carefully supervised missions. They’d dealt with Shades and Floating Brides, with Wraiths and Raw Bones. They’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing down the darkness together. With each mission, Holly’s confidence in not only herself, but her teammates, had grown. She trusted each of them implicitly.

As she left the girls’ locker room, she nearly collided with Colette Sawyer, her teammate and training partner.

“Holly! I was just looking for you,” she exclaimed. “The team wants to meet.”

Holly frowned. It was a Friday afternoon; their team meetings rarely occurred so close to the weekend if they could help it, and such short notice was unusual. “Has something happened?”

Colette shrugged. “New case, I think.”

Holly got the feeling that there was something Colette wasn’t telling her, but she supposed she would find out soon enough. She glanced at the bank of windows on the far wall. The afternoon light filtering through was feeble. Soon it would be dark…She’d been planning to take the Tube to her parents’ place this weekend, but perhaps she’d take a night cab instead.

“All right,” she said, turning back to Colette and smiling, “Let’s go.”

The meeting room was locked when they reached it.

“I guess no one else is here yet,” said Holly to Colette, as she rifled through her gym bag for her copy of the key. “Here we are!” She turned the key in the lock. Just as the door swung open, the lights flicked on.

“SURPRISE!”

Holly gasped. Rena, Jason, and Amir were all there, beaming as they clustered around a cake that looked to be homemade, decorated with fifteen lit candles.

“Oh my god!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “You guys!”

“Happy birthday, Holly,” said Colette, eyes dancing.

As her teammates surrounded her, singing Happy Birthday, warmth blossomed in Holly’s chest. She smiled, her eyes a little watery. Her heart felt too big. She was a part of this—this incredible group of people. This was her team. This was her place.

She blew out the candles, then threw her arms out for a crushing group hug.

Here was home.


	6. Age 15: Wearing Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another case chapter! Also note: there is some (relatively mild) swearing in this chapter

### 

Wearing Blood

The warehouse loomed tall against the overcast sky, its façade blackened by the years of soot that had accumulated there, more of which was drifting in even now from the Fittes furnaces to the east. Holly stared up at it, trying to divine what lay in store for them. Around her, the team stood silently. Colette, like Holly, was contemplating the warehouse. Rena was double-checking her kit bag. Jason was readjusting his rapier. Amir was staring down the street, his expression unreadable.

They were all a bit tense—well, more tense than was usual for them in the wind-up to a case. The haunting was supposed to be a powerful one. Though they’d triumphed over many a spirit in the past months, those cases had been fairly easy. _This_ was it—this was the real test, the one by which they would prove their mettle, show they were worthy of the mantle of agent.

“Ah, good, you’re here,” said a harried-looking older gentleman, the lapels of his suit jacket flapping as he advanced briskly toward their group, mopping his shining face with a checkered handkerchief.

Amir stepped forward, smiling politely, extending his hand to shake. “Mr. Turnbull, I presume? I’m the team supervisor, Amir Farshad.”

“Yes,” Mr. Turnbull said, pumping Amir’s hand enthusiastically, “Oh, thank god you’re here. We couldn’t take much more of this. Half of the workers quit last week, can you believe it? Terrible business.” His eyes skimmed the group. “This the lot of you?”

“Yes, this is my team. All highly trained and up to the Rotwell standard of excellence, of course.”

“Hmph. I suppose you’ll do.”

Amir’s smile waned somewhat. “So, will you be showing us in, Mr. Turnbull?”

“Me? God, no! I’m not setting foot in there, certainly not with dusk so close, no sirree. I’ve just come to give you this.” He produced a sizable sheaf of papers from under his arm, along with a set of keys. “All the information we have on the thingy…I mean, on the Visitor.”

“I see, thank you,” said Amir, thumbing through the papers. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “I’m sure this will be very useful. Thanks for your assistance.”

“You’re welcome. Well,” said Mr. Turnbull, casting them another sweeping glance, “That’s that. Best be on my way, if everything’s in order.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Right. Good luck, then.” And off he went, nearly running in his haste to return to the safety of the cab idling just down the street, his handkerchief clutched to the side of his head.

“Alright,” said Amir once the cab had peeled away from the curb, “Everyone ready?”

Holly nodded, seeing the stoic determination she felt reflected in the faces of her teammates. They were ready.

Amir gave them a half-smile. “Let’s go.” 

***

The warehouse was one of a dozen owned by an international shipping conglomerate. It stored everything from fine silks and priceless antiques to lavender incense sticks and tacky rapiers bejeweled with plastic rhinestones. 

To say locating the Source would be tricky was a bit of an understatement.

For a facility that supposedly housed any number of treasures—which they were to “safeguard no matter the cost”—the warehouse was rather nondescript, almost shabby. As they went on their rounds, Holly took note of the curls of gray paint peeling from the walls, the flimsiness of the rickety shelves, the dents and damp stains on many of the cardboard boxes. It looked like a haunting was the least of Mr. Turnbull’s concerns.

“Anything useful in those papers?” Jason asked Amir as they descended the stairs back to the ground floor.

Amir sighed. “Not really. Lots of descriptions of creeping fear and malaise from workers on evening shifts. And there are a few descriptions that match the information in the case briefing—that is, a ‘glowing, blood-covered figure’—but nothing new. The rest of it’s just inventory, which might come in useful if we get a hint on the Source.”

The team nodded, unsurprised. Clients rarely offered much more than a glimpse into the truth of a manifestation. They’d researched the building, of course, but considering the newness of the haunting, the Visitor was unlikely to be attached to the warehouse itself. It was much more likely to have sprung from one of the company’s shipments. They would have to sound it out.

“Anyone want chocolate?” Amir asked as they filed back to the base they’d set up earlier. They clustered about, sipping from their thermoses and breaking off chunks from the chocolate bars passed around. The warmth of the tea combined with the sweetness of the chocolate did the trick; some of their tension ebbed away, and they dared to crack wan smiles at each other.

“OK,” said Amir, clapping his hands, “Let’s lay out the plan, shall we?”

Amir was something of an unusual phenomenon, as far as adult supervisors went. He was young, only in his mid-twenties—far younger than the kind of adult Rotwell tended to prefer for such positions: late middle-age, usually with a fancy degree and no field training whatsoever. Amir _did_ have a degree—a business degree, Holly thought—but he had trained in fieldwork for some time as a child. Why he hadn’t become an agent was unclear, but the result was that he respected agents more than the average adult and employed a more hands-off approach than most.

“Based on the reports and our readings, the psychic phenomena seem to be mostly isolated to the fifth floor, so let’s set up shop there. Start out with observation, and then you can move in— _cautiously_ —if you get any hints on the Source. Stick with protocol; don’t move from your position unless you’ve checked with me, alright? And that brings me to the last part: I’d like for you guys to try and report in every hour. Got it?”

They nodded.

“OK. Let’s move out.”

* * *

The sun had barely set when the temperature on the fifth floor took a steep plunge. It was like being shoved into an ice bath. Holly shivered, zipping up her anorak. Beside her, Colette straightened, tying her long blond hair back into a bun. They were at one end of the vast floor, sitting in their chain circle; Jason and Rena were at the other end, hidden from their view by the labyrinth of shelving units stretching across the room. Amir was stationed outside of the storage area, by the stairs.

“Zero degrees and dropping,” Holly said, glancing at the thermometer clipped to her belt.

Colette nodded. “Look, ghost fog.”

Greenish white fog was pouring out from between the darkened rows of shelves, glinting with its own eerie light. They had turned off the generator earlier, so that the only illumination had come from the setting sun outside and their snuff-lights. Now night had fallen.

And it was starting.

Holly focused on her breathing. It was a technique they were taught in training; she let herself feel the icy drag of air against her lungs as she inhaled and exhaled, let the rhythm of it block out the alien despair tugging at the pit of her stomach. “Do you feel that?”

“Yeah,” Colette said, fingering the hilt of her rapier. “Strong malaise. Getting ghost-lock, too.”

“Mm.” Holly cast her eyes about, but there was no sign of the supernatural save for the ghost fog lapping at their boots and the wavering of the snuff-light set a few paces away from them. “Hear anything?”

Colette shook her head. “No…unless…do you hear that noise?”

Holly glanced at her. “What noise?”

“Like a sword rasping against the ground. It’s really faint…I thought it might be one of the others.”

Holly listened. “No, I don’t hear it. Is it still there?”

“Yes.” Colette paused. “Now it’s stopped.”

Silence fell between them as they each strained their Talents.

“Nothing,” Holly sighed a few minutes later. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Looks like it’ll take a while,” said Colette. “Might as well sit down.” She sank to the ground. Holly followed suit, crossing her legs.

Holly studied her teammate. The light from the ghost fog lit green glimmers in her fair hair and gave her pale skin a sickly cast. She’d been very quiet all evening, and she looked tired. “Are you alright?”

Colette looked across at her. “Yeah. Why?”

Holly shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve been off lately. And you look terrible.” 

Colette bristled, green eyes flashing, then sighed. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

She grinned. “Nope. It’s what you get for being best friends with a ‘snotty little know-it-all’.”

Her friend heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Never,” Holly agreed. 

When they’d first met, Holly and Colette had clashed spectacularly. Holly hadn’t been a fan of Colette’s bluntness, her slap-dash way of doing things, her short temper. For her part, Colette thought Holly was prissy, too passive, overly meticulous. The fact that they were assigned to be training partners hadn’t really helped prevent their mutual dislike from boiling over into anger. Sparring during the first few weeks had been vicious, to say the least. But being perpetually angry at someone you were forced to spend long hours working with was exhausting, and they soon came to realize that they had more in common than they’d thought. After that, it didn’t take long for the two to become fast friends.

Colette flicked a speck of dust from her crimson uniform jacket. “It’s nothing. Just…my dad.”

Her brow furrowed in concern. “Oh, no, is he doing worse?” A few years ago, Colette’s father had gotten into an accident. He’d been taking a night cab home when the car skidded on a patch of ice. The driver and Mr. Sawyer were ejected, but it wasn’t the crash that caused the damage. That night, hoping for a short cut, the driver had taken a side street where a fatal crash had occurred just the previous week. The ice was part of the manifestation. Both of them were ghost touched. The driver perished before the EMTs arrived. Mr. Sawyer had been administered life-saving adrenalin in the nick of time, but the ghost touch had already done damage to his internal organs. He was frequently in and out of hospitals. It was the reason why Colette had become an agent in the first place.

“No,” said Colette, now preoccupied with the gold buttons on her jacket, “Not exactly. He’s—he’s not worse, but he’s not getting better. My mum’s worried, but she won’t admit it.”

“I’m sorry,” Holly murmured, reaching out to squeeze her friend’s shoulder. She didn’t push. It wasn’t just that now wasn’t the time to get emotional. Getting Colette to talk about her life was like pulling teeth. It had taken months before she told the team anything about herself, and as far as Holly knew, she was the only one aware that Mr. Sawyer had been in hospital the past month.

Colette exhaled shakily. “Thanks.” She cleared her throat, straightened, suddenly the unflinching agent once more. “Right, that’s enough of that.”

Holly eyed her.

“I’m _fine_.”

“OK,” she conceded. “But if you need anything, if you need to talk…”

“I know,” said her friend, smiling, “Thanks, Holly. Really. But we need to focus now.”

Holly nodded. “Right.”

Once again, they turned their senses outward into the cold darkness of the space. The silence had a physicality to it now. The air was viscous with old grief. Holly sensed that time was spinning away from her, passing in strange leaps as she stretched her mind thin, eyes closed, barely pausing to refocus. Occasionally, their walkie-talkies squawked—Amir, asking for status reports. Their supervisor’s voice, steady and unperturbed, was a grounding force, anchoring them to the present even as the past endeavored to sweep them away.

Hours passed.

“It’s back,” said Colette abruptly, shattering the stillness. “The sound from before. It’s louder.”

Holly nodded. “I hear it, too.” It was a familiar metallic rasp, the exact sound a rapier made when dragged against asphalt, but faint, as if traveling over a great distance. She checked the impulse to walk over to one of the windows and peer down to the road below. The windows were closed, after all. Such a sound would never come through thick glass so clearly, certainly not five stories up from ground level.

The sound of a spectral rapier. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the implications. Holly swallowed.

The walkie talkie at her belt crackled to life. “Holly, Colette, come in.”

“We’re here.”

“Anything new?”

“Yes,” said Colette, her eyes scanning the dark, “The sound I mentioned a few hours ago—it’s back.”

“I can hear it as well,” Holly added.

“Like a rapier, you said?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Jason and Rena said the same thing. They haven’t seen anything yet, though. Have you?”

“Negative.”

“Alright. Stay calm and keep your eyes peeled, girls. Remember, when it manifests, don’t engage unless necessary. Look for a vanishing point if possible.”

“Got it.”

“OK, I’ll check back in on you in an hour.”

The grating rasp of ghostly metal filled the silence, starting and stopping at odd intervals. Holly glanced at the snuff-light. The flame had shrunk, but it was still there, twisting in an unseen wind.

“It’s past eleven,” she said with a start, glancing at her watch. Sunset had been five hours ago.

“Yeah.” Colette was suppressing a yawn. “I just wish the thing would hurry up and manifest already. All this waiting is killing me.”

As if spurred by her words, the snuff-light went out, curls of smoke winding into the frigid air.

They exchanged looks, getting to their feet.

There was a sense of imminence that hadn’t been there before. Holly gazed out, eyes searching the rows of shelves. The metallic scraping noise was still in evidence. It seemed to have picked up in speed.

Where _was_ it?

The scraping stopped.

Before Holly could step back, before she could so much as gasp, it was there, standing right in front of her, barely a breath away.

“Oh, shit,” said Colette.

That about summed it up.

It was a boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, wreathed in pale radiance, with tousled, light brown hair and liquid, dark eyes. His features were precise, every detail razor-sharp—like looking through a lens. She could see the tiny mole at his temple, the band-aid on his left hand, the gold glimmers in his hair where it reflected the echo of some old light source. Was it the very light that had fallen on him as he died? Or was it perhaps light from some memory of his, some happy, sunlit day? It was anyone’s guess. God, he was so real. She almost felt that if she reached out, she would touch a thin, warm shoulder. He gazed up at her beseechingly, his boots scuffing at the iron chains between them. He was so, so young.

All that on its own was gut-wrenching enough. But there was more.

A rapier in the French style hung limply from his right hand, its blade dented and covered in ectoplasm burns, its dulled tip dragging against the floor. He wore a blood-red jacket with polished gold buttons, its resemblance to their own uniforms unmistakable.

He’d been one of them. One of Rotwell’s.

Blinding, bluish-white other-light flowed from him in waves. As she gazed into his wide, dead eyes, Holly felt the full force of his despair, his silent rage.

A Shining Boy.

She blinked hard, took a half-step back within the chain circle. Yes, a Shining Boy. A dangerous Type II. That’s what he was now. It made no difference what he’d been before, in life.

“Colette,” she whispered, “Should we—”

But before she could finish her sentence, the apparition winked out. Just like that, he was gone, as quickly as he’d appeared.

The beating of her heart was absurdly loud in the ensuing silence, and Holly suddenly realized how fast her breathing was, how her forehead was coated in cold sweat. She tried to slow her breaths, blinking her eyes as she tried to banish the afterimage seared into her retinas.

They stared at the point where the boy had stood.

“Guess a vanishing point isn’t going to be much use on this one,” mumbled Colette after at last. 

“We should report in,” said Holly, unclipping the walkie-talkie at her belt. “Amir, this is Holly and Colette. We’ve just encountered the Visitor. It’s a Shining Boy.”

Static.

“Amir? Come in, please.”

More static.

“Rena, Jason, come in.”

No response.

“I don’t like this,” Holly breathed. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Screw protocol. We’ve got to go check on them,” Colette said, drawing her rapier.

She bit her lip. “Yes, but we’ve got to be careful. If it catches us by surprise…”

“Right. We’ll have to go slowly.”

They gazed at each other. They knew that going slowly wouldn’t necessarily guarantee survival. They’d already seen how quickly the Visitor could manifest.

What they needed now was luck.

Holly drew her own rapier and took a deep breath. “On three?”

“On three.”

“OK. Three…two…one.”

Together, they stepped over the iron line.

***

Holly had half-expected the Visitor to appear the minute they stepped out into the chains. She felt an embarrassing amount of relief when nothing happened.

Cautiously, rapiers raised, they edged forward along the narrow space between two metal shelving units. Twice, Holly thought she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye, but there was nothing except for the cold glimmer of steel, lit by the dim glow filtering in through the windows overlooking the streets below.

They stopped at every intersection of aisles, checking right and left, before darting across the exposed space into the next shadowy aisle. Holly felt uncomfortably like a rat, skittering recklessly before a predator’s shining gaze. Every step felt like she was tempting fate. But the thought of her colleagues propelled her forward, through her fear, through the malaise and the ghost-lock.

They were upon another intersection. Beside her, Colette stopped dead. Holly tensed. “What is it?” she hissed, hating how loud her voice was in the compressed silence.

“The rapier. I hear it.”

Her spine prickled. She spun in place, searching, but there was no tell-tale flare of light, no false cognate of a uniform stalking towards them. “Can you tell how far away it is?”

“No.”

They were a little over half-way to their destination. “We’ve got to keep going.”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t hear it. Last time, I could. So, that’s fine, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

They exchanged glances, tightening their hands against the solid heft of their rapiers.

Holly went first this time, boots treading lightly against the vinyl floor. Colette followed a heartbeat behind. As they entered the embrace of deeper shadows, they exhaled a sigh of relief.

Something brushed Holly’s elbow.

She jumped backward, letting out a strangled cry, raking her rapier through the air. There was a _whump_ as something fell to the ground.

“Holly! Are you alright?”

Holly blinked, staring. “Um. Yes. But I think I’ve murdered a cardboard box.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“Yeah…D’you think that counts as a breach of ‘safeguard these items no matter the cost’?”

Colette snorted. “Who bloody cares? Come on, we’ve got to keep going.”

They pressed on.

They were nearly there when it happened. “Colette…I can hear it.”  


It was different from before. Closer, somehow, and less erratic. In fact, it had a definite rhythmic quality…almost as if it was being dragged along by someone walking…

The hairs at her nape stood on end. Very slowly, she turned her head to the right. _Oh, god_ …

There, in the gap between two shelves, was a blot of crimson.

It was right there, walking along the aisle parallel to them, matching them step for step, separated from them only by inches of flimsy metal. How long had it been there, creeping alongside them? How long had they been blind?

As if it sensed her attention, the figure stilled. The scraping stopped.

A face appeared in the gap.

Gone was the boyish innocence, gone was the pleading look. It was smiling at her, almost teasing except for the malevolence gleaming in its eyes. As she watched, a hand reached through the gap, red-jacketed arm lengthening, elongating unnaturally…

“RUN!”

Holly skidded down the aisle, Colette beside her, the two of them throwing glances over their shoulders at the arm racing after them, boneless and over-long, the fingers clawed and grasping. A preternatural wind rose up around them, plucking at their hair and slapping at their faces, but their pace did not slow. They careered down the final stretch, bursting out into the open. Rena and Jason were standing only a few feet away, eyes wide. The chain circle was against the far wall, behind them. It was too far away—they wouldn’t make it—

Suddenly, Rena was beside her, pale blue eyes flashing as her rapier whirled. Steaming bits of ectoplasm rained down as her sword lashed a ward in the air. “Come on!”

Holly turned, her rapier upraised, weaving in familiar, practiced patterns. She sensed Colette and Jason on her other side. Together, the four of them managed to hem it back. The arm retreated slowly, shrinking backwards.

Then it vanished altogether.

Intuition prickled her skin. Holly whirled, crying a warning—just in time to see the Visitor reform behind them. The arm was once again a normal length. The boy gazed at them for a moment, mouth pinched with fury, then rushed forward, his battered rapier upraised. They met him halfway.

It was surreal, seeing Rotwell training turned on them, the living. Holly twisted away as the boy’s rapier leapt past her guard, and its tip traced a ward-knot against her jacket rather than her neck, ectoplasm searing the fabric. He moved faster than was humanly possible, battling all four of them at once. It was all Holly could do to dodge and block his strikes. Laurens’ voice echoed in the back of her head: _Right…duck…left…parry…parry…riposte…jump…_

Sweat poured down her face. They couldn’t keep this up forever, she knew. One of them had to act, had to put an end to this…but to pause, to avert focus for even a second was to die. The thing was too fast, too cunning…Her sword arm was starting to ache, and the bright other-light hurt her eyes…The others weren’t in much better shape, she could tell…Slowly, her free hand crept to her belt…Perhaps…if she could just…

But before she could do anything, wind slammed into her, sending her reeling. The Shining Boy skimmed close, eyes eager—

“Watch out!” Something crashed into her side, tackled her to the ground. Jason. He was already rolling away, getting to his feet. She lay there winded, watching as the other three stood in front of her, frantically slashing at the apparition to hold it off. This wasn’t good. Gasping, she tried to stand. Just as she got to her knees, something sailed through the air, landing at the apparition’s feet. For a millisecond, time stood still. Even the Visitor froze, its otherworldly brilliance dimming.

“All of you, get down!”

Holly’s eyes widened even as she threw herself flat, sensing her teammates similarly flinging themselves free. There was an uneasy heartbeat where nothing happened. She sensed the other-light brightening as the Visitor loomed over their now-prone bodies—

Then the flare exploded.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the sunburst of Greek fire. Something keened, high and wild, over the sound of the explosion. She covered her head with her arms as hot iron fragments cascaded down. Something warm and wet trickled down her jaw.

The sudden silence was broken by a hissing noise. Holly felt a blast of cool air. Sitting up, she saw Amir aiming a fire extinguisher at the small flames that had leapt up in the wake of the flare.

He seemed to sense their stares, turning. “Hey, guys. Everyone alright?”

They stared some more.

He raised an eyebrow. “Ghost got your tongue?”

That broke the spell. Jason sighed, shaking his head. “Amir, mate, that was fantastic right up until you ruined it with one of your lame jokes.”

Their supervisor laughed. “Come off it, my jokes aren’t lame! You scoff now, but if I hadn’t been hired by Rotwell, I’d have been on BBC Radio, doing one of those comedy bits. No really, I was offered a spot by—"

“How did you even know where to throw it?” Colette interrupted, catching Holly’s eyes. They’d heard this very argument play out one too many times.

Amir shrugged. “I’ve still got a bit of sight. And having you lot all clustered around it was helpful.”

“But why are you here?” Rena broke in, “It’s—”

“Against protocol? Funny you should be mentioning that, considering,” here he gave them a half-hearted glare, “that you seem to have overlooked a good bit of protocol, between the four of you.” He grew serious. “I suspect I’m out here for the same reason Holly and Colette are on the wrong side of the room. I couldn’t reach any of you and I got worried. No, no, don’t do that, don’t get all sappy on me. In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve still got a haunting to deal with.”

They sobered. He was right. The flare would have obliterated the Visitor’s strength, but it was only a matter of time until it reformed.

“Amir,” said Holly suddenly, “The Visitor was a Rotwell agent.”

He stilled. “Really? I’m sorry, guys, that’s awful…That might narrow things down, though. I’ve got the inventory, remember? Let’s go check it out.”

* * *

They returned to Amir's circle by the stairs. It took them some time to trawl through the company’s extensive list of shipping records. They focused on the exports, but even that was several pages long. None of them were entirely sure what they were looking for. They were hoping for a reference to Rotwell—a uniform, perhaps, or a rapier. But they knew it was unlikely. Rotwell rapiers were solid iron, coated with silver—not exactly conducive to acting as a Source. The jacket was more plausible, but still unlikely. Agents’ pockets tended to fill with odd bits of kit—iron filings, salt, sprigs of lavender. And what would a foreigner want with a Rotwell field jacket, anyway?

“What about this?” asked Rena after a time, twirling a lock of dark hair as she frowned down at one of the inventory sheets.

Jason peered over her shoulder. “I already looked at that page.”

“Yes, but what about this badge?”

“What badge?”

“It’s described as ‘gold filigree, lion regnant’. Sound familiar?”

Amir frowned. “You think…The badge from the old dress uniform?”

“Could be.”

Seeing their looks of confusion, Amir explained, “They used to give some agents badges to wear on special occasions, with their dress uniforms. They stopped in the nineties, probably because it cost too much, but it used to be a big deal. Only the very best got them. Some of the older supervisors still talk about theirs.”

Rena nodded. “My mother had a badge, back when she was an agent. Said she wore it all the time, even on cases.”

“It’s definitely possible,” said Amir. “There’s nothing else that jumps out, and we’ve been looking for a while.”

“Shall we go now, or wait for dawn?” Holly asked.

“It _is_ dawn,” Jason pointed out.

And it was. Querulous threads of morning light were piercing the gloom of the warehouse’s interior. Holly blinked. The Visitor hadn’t reformed after all. It seemed strangely anticlimactic, after the night they’d had. She was still on high alert, and she suspected she would remain so well into the day.

“Well?” asked Colette. “What are we waiting for?”

Though his operation might have been strapped for cash, Mr. Hall’s inventory was not lacking in the least. It didn’t take them long to find the badge.

They gazed at it where it lay nestled in wax paper, a pool of dampness spreading out from it—no doubt the melted remains of a layer of frost. It was a lovely, delicate thing, the gold catching the morning light. The Rotwell lion, instantly recognizable despite the un-cartoonish rendering, was frozen mid-snarl. Its eyes were tiny, gleaming garnets.

Rena took a deep breath and extended her hand toward it.

“You don’t have to do that,” insisted Amir. “This is clearly the Source.”

“I know, but…we owe it to him. He was one of us.”

No one could object to that.

Holly watched as Rena’s hand closed around the badge and her face went slack. A myriad of expressions shot across her features. Holly caught happiness, quickly overtaken by fear, then disbelief, then desperation mingled with rage, then resignation, and, finally, pain. Rena’s eyes shot open, and she snatched back her hand as if burned.

They stared at her, waiting.

She inhaled. “He…died on a case. He was wearing this. It was…I don’t know, something really dangerous. I couldn’t tell what, it was too confused. They had to seal the room off. They followed protocol exactly, as far as I could tell. They tried everything. But,” She paused, her eyes over-bright. “They had to seal it off with him still inside.”

Oh. Something twisted and plunged in Holly’s stomach. No wonder. The pleading look, the unadulterated rage, the way he’d fought against them with such—such ferocity. Even the fact that the badge was his Source.

He blamed them. Well, not them. Rotwell. Rotwell had made him, and Rotwell had left him to die. In his eyes, at least.

She wasn’t sure why it made her so sick. It happened all the time.

Still, it was an unusually quiet group that made its way out into the bright street. And as the crimson of her jacket caught the sun, there was a brief moment where Holly wondered, in an uncharacteristically macabre train of thought, how many children had spilled their lifeblood for the sake of that vivid red.

* * *

Mr. Hall had not exactly been pleased with the scorch marks on the fifth floor, or with the unfortunate cardboard-box-casualty, but, considering that they’d eliminated the haunting (and the fact that suing Rotwell for damages generally never ended well for the plaintiff), he let it go after a sufficient amount of grumbling. “Glad you lot made it out alive, though,” he muttered as he handed Amir the check.

The badge was burned later that morning, of course, but not before they’d managed to find out who it had belonged to: a young agent named Liam McElroy, who had begun training at age 5 and had advanced through Rotwell’s ranks at lightning speed, only to die tragically at the age of 10. The agency planned to honor his memory by hosting a ceremony, where they would give his parents a new badge and a plaque.

The case had overall been a great success. All four of them were promoted to Grade Four, and Amir received an official commendation for his bravery. Better still, they were given the rest of the week off.

“Anyone up for some lunch before we go home? My treat,” said Amir as they left the Rotwell offices shortly after noon, their case report freshly filed, their scrapes and burns from the flare bandaged, and their uniforms sent for mending.

“What shall we have?” Holly asked.

“Indian?” suggested Jason.

“We did Indian last case,” Rena pointed out.

“I could really do with a coffee,” sighed Colette.

They walked down the sidewalk, chatting about nothing, letting the spring sunlight swallow up their cares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the badge kind of deviates from Rotwell's cartoonish image, but I needed a Source that would be connected to the agency and I was kind of floundering so...yeah. Also, in my head, agents from the big agencies have field uniforms (which are enhanced with things like padding or flame-resistance) and dress uniforms, which are essentially the same but slightly fancier and not protective.
> 
> That moment from the first book with the dead Fittes agent at Combe Carey really struck me. I thought, how much more gut-wrenching would it be if the dead agent was from your own agency, wearing the same uniform? Especially since the large agencies seem to have a great deal of team spirit. (Also...foreshadowing). And it's bound to happen sometime in an agent's career right? Maybe most agents are put to rest so they don't come back, but surely some slip through the cracks.
> 
> I really wanted to fit in some team bonding/dynamics in here and show Holly's relationships. I hope I succeeded! Also, maybe they seem oddly distracted at some points but I figure, if they walk into haunted buildings all the time, they get kind of desensitized, right? And they've got to relieve the tension. Anyway, what do you think?


	7. Age 15: Building Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Lockwood and Co. And I may or may not have been writing this when I should've been studying for exams. Whoops!
> 
> Don't really like this chapter title but...eh.

“Holly, dear, could you set the table please?” Her mother’s voice floated to her from the kitchen, breaking her from her melancholic reverie. She’d been staring unseeing at the pages of her novel for the past twenty minutes.

“Of course, Mum,” Holly replied, marking her place before rising from the couch and crossing into the dining room. She busied herself with setting out placemats and utensils, glad to have a distraction. The ghost of Liam McElroy had left an impression on her psyche, and none of her usual post-case rituals had proven up to the task of banishing the sorrow and unease that kept settling over her like a smog. She wasn’t sure exactly why the case had affected her so particularly—whether it was the boy’s youngness in death, or the fact that he had been with Rotwell—but affect her it had. She’d toyed with the idea of going to see a company therapist but decided to wait. After all, they’d closed the case only a few days ago. It was only natural, she felt, for recovery to take some time. Which was why she’d decided to go home during her time off. She wanted to be away from Rotwell, from the unfeeling glass buildings, from the corporate boardrooms, from the rush of her fellow agents whirling down the corridors like so many crimson leaves in an autumn wind. At the moment, it was more than she could bear. So, she’d come home, back to her parents’ townhouse in Bloomsbury. It was nice to bask in the warmth of her parents’ love and to be once again in her childhood home. Even so, as her parents worked during the day, and her mother insisted that Holly spend her time resting, there was precious little to occupy her, and she found her thoughts drifting too often in unpleasant directions.

Helena Munro appeared in the doorway of the dining room as Holly set out the last plate. Her jet-black curls were pulled back in a loose bun, emphasizing the elegant cut of her cheekbones. She was still wearing the cream-colored suit she’d worn to work, still perfectly unblemished despite the fact that she’d been cooking, and it set off the gold undertones of her dark complexion. She set the steaming pot she was carrying down on the table, then aimed a worried glance at the clock. “Your father’s working late again.”

It was half-past five; the sun would set soon. It was a gray, damp March day, and the short supply of sunlight had already waned considerably. Holly frowned. “You said Dad’s been doing that more often. Is everything alright at work?”

Her mother sighed, brushing a stray curl back into her bun. “Yes, just the demands of academia. Actually, your father’s very excited by his new project. He’s working with ectoplasm, you see, something about reactions with organic matter…well, I never was one for chemistry, but it’s all he can talk about.”

Holly stared at her mother, amazed. “He’s working with _ectoplasm_?”

Helena’s eyebrows drew together. “Yes, he started on it last month. He didn’t tell you? I thought he would’ve mentioned it last night, when you got here.”

“No, I had no idea!” Holly felt a bit guilty; she hadn’t seen much of either of her parents in the past few months, and now that she _was_ here, she was all out of sorts and they were both busy besides.

“How odd! You know, he kept wondering what you’d think about this and that experiment. Apparently,” Helena continued with a smile, “he’s mentioned you quite a lot at work. His poor colleagues are quite sick of it, I imagine. I think he’d really like it if you’d take a look at what he’s doing.”

Holly smiled back. “I’d really like that, Mum.” Her mind was still spinning with the idea that her father was investigating ectoplasm. It was true that, given the Problem and her parents’ work as scientists, their work often related at least tangentially to things like ghost-touch or ectoplasm or miasma. Still, to work on ectoplasm _directly_ …Once upon a time, both her parents had been staunch skeptics with regard to the Problem, and now…

The sound of the front door opening jolted her from her thoughts.

“I’m home!” called her father.

Holly exchanged looks with her mum, and together they rose and went into the hall. Her father, dressed in dark slacks and a green, collared shirt, was shucking off his black rain jacket. He was a tall man, dwarfing his petite wife in height, and handsome, with the same coffee-colored complexion as his daughter. His close-cropped hair was damp from the drizzle outside, and his dark eyes twinkled behind his glasses as he caught sight of his wife approaching. His face creased in the gentle smile Holly knew he reserved just for her mother.

“Just in time for dinner,” Helena said as she leaned up to peck Henry, “We weren’t sure you’d make it.” Her tone was light, but her eyes were reproving.

Henry’s face softened in apology. “I’m sorry, love. I’ve got to stop doing that, haven’t I? Starting tomorrow, I’ll set an alarm for when to leave.” He looked past Helena, brightening when he spotted his daughter and opening his arms. “Holsie! Hello, my favorite daughter!”

Holly laughed and ran up to hug him, replying the way she always had: “I’m your _only_ daughter, Dad!”

“Still my favorite,” he grinned, ruffling her hair.

“Da- _ad_!” She glared half-heartedly, trying to smooth her hair down. “Do you _have_ to?”

“Do I have to what?” he asked innocently. “Ah, is that dinner I smell? Goodness, I am _famished_! Wait, wasn’t it my turn to cook, love? Oh, no that’s right, it’s tomorrow…” And off he sailed into the dining room, arm in arm with Holly’s mum, with Holly trailing behind, trying to suppress her smile.

Dinner, for Holly, was a nostalgic affair. She’d arrived late last night, so she hadn’t eaten dinner with her parents then. But now, sitting at her usual place, at the same oaken dining table, in the same dining room with its glass chandelier and silk drapes and framed landscapes, she felt transported to simpler times. Sitting with her parents and eating and talking with them felt all too natural. It almost felt like nothing had changed, even though it had. And, she was starting to realize, it wasn’t just her who had changed; her mum and dad had changed in her absence as well. The thought both pleased her and made her heart squeeze painfully.

Her parents did most of the talking. Her mother talked about her latest research, something to do with ghost touch victims and cell regeneration rates.

“In essence,” she said, “some of the victims who’ve recovered from severe ghost touch have cells that replicate too slowly, or they make mistakes in replication, which can have a lot of severe side effects. We’re working on a stem cell treatment that might help with that. Even if it doesn’t really help with ghost-touch, we’re hoping that at least it’ll advance our understanding of cancer, so it’s a bit of a two-pronged effort, really.”

“Do you think that it would help Colette’s dad?” Holly asked, toying with a forkful of spinach as she remembered with a pang that Mr. Sawyer was likely in hospital at that very moment.

Her mum smiled sadly. “We hope so. It’s early stages yet. But the goal is indeed to help people like Mr. Sawyer, who’ve suffered a great deal of organ damage as a result of ghost touch.”

They talked a bit more about work; Holly related how training was going, and how her team was doing, and her father regaled them with tales of poor, clumsy Ian’s latest misadventures—poor Ian being his new lab assistant.

“Poor lad,” he chuckled once their laughter had subsided, “I thought he was going to puke all over the MP’s Italian loafers. Luckily, he managed to hold it in, and we got our funding, so all’s well that ends well, I suppose. It was a close thing, though; the man didn’t take too kindly to having a suspension of ectoplasm spilled all over his three-piece suit. Can’t imagine why, really.”

Holly laughed, then leaned forward. “So, how _is_ the ectoplasm research going, Dad?”

Her dad lit up, obviously delighted by her curiosity, and launched into a detailed explanation of his work in the past month. Holly had never given too much thought to the molecular makeup of ectoplasm but listening to her father talk about it was both fascinating and educational.

All too soon, they’d finished eating and begun clearing the dishes away. It had not escaped Holly’s notice that neither of her parents had asked her about her latest case, other than to mention having seen it in the papers and congratulate her on their success. She was grateful; it wasn’t really something she wanted to talk about just then. For the moment, she was content to just sink into that feeling of home and listen to her parents’ banter.

***

The Saturday after the Liam McElroy case found Holly in her parents’ backyard, watching butterflies flitting among the daffodils in the garden, a mug of tea clutched in hand. She hadn’t slept well, had rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn, sick of staring at the ceiling. She’d occupied herself with chores at first, dusting and doing laundry before finally putting the kettle on for tea, falling back into an old habit.

When she was little, she had liked to sit in the yard with her morning tea, letting the steam curl around her as she soaked in the sight of dew-wet grass and golden sun. The yard was always bright at that time of day, and the sound of traffic on the street beyond the house was muffled here. It had always had a calming effect on her, this little morning ritual of hers. She wasn’t sure how long she was there before her dad joined her, settling next to her with his own mug. “Good morning, Holly.”

“Morning, Dad,” she replied, and watched as her father took a sip of his tea and winced ever-so-slightly. She smiled. Some things never changed.

“I forgot you always make that green stuff,” Mr. Munro said somewhat ruefully, staring into his mug. “How did you manage? I thought we were all out. I could’ve sworn I found all of it.” The last bit was muttered under his breath.

Holly smirked. “Yes, except for my emergency stash.”

Her dad frowned in consternation. “You have an emergency stash? What on earth for?”

“It’s always good to be prepared. After all, it came in handy this morning,” said Holly primly. “And no, I’m not telling you where it is so you can get rid of it as soon as I leave.”

Mr. Munro opened his mouth to protest, then closed it sheepishly. “Well, as long as you don’t tell your mother where it is either. I still haven’t recovered from the last diet she insisted on, Holly. A green tea regimen will do you poor old father in.”

“Oh dear,” said Holly, grinning. “I had no idea you were in such dire straits.”

Mr. Munro nodded solemnly, his eyes wide. “Yes, my dear daughter. While you have been away, I have faced my darkest hour. I have only two words to describe this horror: intermittent fasting.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “ _Fasting_ , Holly.”

Holly gasped in mock-horror. “Fasting? My _goodness,_ I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. My poor, old father. The Great Green Tea Secret stays with me, you have my word.”

Mr. Munro folded his hands as if in prayer. “Thank you, most excellent daughter. You are truly without compare.”

Holly pretended to preen. “I know, I’m wonderful, aren’t I?”

They burst out laughing.

“I still don’t understand why you’re so insistent on green tea,” Mr. Munro said when he’d recovered. “What’s wrong with a nice strong cup of Assam?”

“Green tea is _so_ much better for you, Dad,” Holly sighed. “Not as much caffeine, more calming…”

“Hmm.” He cast her a side-long glance.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“ _What_ , Dad?”

“It’s just you’re such a health freak.” He smiled an odd half-smile, as if he found something grimly amusing.

Holly frowned. “So?”

“Well,” he said carefully, “it’s just a bit incongruous with your…lifestyle. Isn’t it?”

Her eyebrows raised. “My lifestyle?”

“Your job.”

“Not really. I mean, we need all the energy we can get, as agents, you know, and…” She trailed off at the expression on her father’s face.

“Holly, why are you still doing this?”

She felt a pang of unease. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you still an agent? Haven’t you had your share of sword-swinging and thrills? Aren’t you…aren’t you tired of all the death and destruction?” The words burst out of Mr. Munro’s mouth like a river through an old dam, and Holly felt something grow cold inside her, even as anger thrummed in her veins.

“Sword swinging and thrills?” She asked quietly. “Is that what you think it is?”

“It’s just—”

“It’s my job,” she said forcefully, cutting him off. “I’m good at it. And—I’m making a difference. The Problem is a _real problem_ —or haven’t you accepted that yet?”

“Yes,” her father said in a gentle, patient tone that made her anger rise, “I know the Problem is real, now. But there are other ways to make a difference. Why—”

“You _know_ why! You of all people know _why_.” Holly felt her eyes sting and swiped at them, glaring furiously. Her father looked stricken. Of course, he knew what she was referring to. The memory of her late uncle lay like a dead thing between them. It had been a long time since either of them had spoken aloud of James Munro.

“But Holly,” her father’s voice was less calm, less measured now, and Holly felt a vicious, guilty satisfaction. “That’s why I’m—he was my brother—I can’t, not you, don’t you understand?”

“Then why didn’t you stop me? I spent _years_ working toward this, why didn’t you stop me then?”

“I tried! Don’t you remember? I tried! But you were so insistent. I thought—”

“What, that I’d grow out of it? That it was some childish phase? I’m _not_ a child.”

Her father’s eyes were sad. “But that’s just it. You _are_ a child, Holly. Or you should be.”

She crossed her arms. She couldn’t believe it. She knew her parents were always a bit uneasy about her job, but to suggest she should quit now, after everything….

“What would I even do? If I quit? This is my _career_. It’s what I’m _good_ at.”

“You have all your schooling. You could go to uni—”

“And what, become a scientist? Research the Problem, like you and Mum?”

“Well—”

A thought struck her. “Is Mum in on this? Does she agree with you?” The look in her father’s eyes was answer enough. The surge of anger and hurt made her feel light-headed. “Unbelievable!” She stood and began to pace, clutching her mug like a lifeline. “This is my job. I _chose_ this, and I’m good at it! I _trained_ for it. I won’t—I’m not going to end up—I’m a good agent!”

Her father looked at her. “I know you are. But is that enough?”

Unbidden, the memory of the Shining Boy rose to her mind. The Rotwell boy, vicious and abandoned and dead. He’d been good, too, hadn’t he? And yet…Holly’s eyes narrowed. “You read about the case, didn’t you?”

Her father looked sheepish. “Well…”

“ _That’s_ why you’re asking all these questions now, when you hadn’t before.”

Her father’s eyes widened. Evidently, he hadn’t thought of it quite like that. “Holly, no, that wasn’t my intention. I didn’t mean—”

“You can’t do this! You can’t play on my doubts! Do you know what a moment of hesitation could do to me, out there in the field?”

Her father flinched as if slapped. “I didn’t—I didn’t think—”

“Well, you should have!” Holly cried, incensed.

They stood like that for a moment, tense, regarding each other, Holly angry and defensive, her father remorseful and plaintive.

“Holly! Did you bring this tea with you, because I thought we were all out? It’s the strangest thing, every time I buy some bags of green, it seems to run out almost immediately, and—oh.” Helena Munro froze, taking in the scene. She turned to her husband. “I take it didn’t go well?”

Before her father could make any sort of reply, Holly muttered, “I’m going upstairs,” and stalked past her parents, storming up the stairs to her room. She didn’t quite slam the door when she got there, but it was a close thing.

In the cool quiet of her room, the flush of her anger began to fade, but didn’t quite abate.

Why _was_ she so angry?

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Holly thought back to the argument with her father, and couldn’t stop that same morass of hurt and anger and anxiety and disappointment from rising in her chest. It wasn’t the worry. Holly knew her parents worried about her, of course they did. They cared. And Holly respected that worry. Death was a reality in the field, she knew. It was just…this was what she was _meant_ to do. Why couldn’t they understand? They’d had this argument over and over again, and Holly had thought she had won. She thought they had understood, that they _respected_ her choice, that they had enough _faith_ in her abilities…And now, at the first sign of doubt and fear, after that awful case when she and her teammates had had to stare that potential fate in the eyes—now, when what she wanted more than anything was reassurance, _now_ they chose to dredge up bygones? To play up her fears and make her doubt herself? To _show_ her that _they_ didn’t believe in _her_?

It was manipulative. And maybe they hadn’t meant to be, but it was. She’d always thought that, even when her own self-confidence was shaken, she could rely on her parents to believe in her. But now…now that wasn’t true, was it? They’d pretended to believe in her, but all they’d seen all this time was a little girl playing at swords. What was it her dad had said? Sword-swinging and thrills? All this time, she’d been making serious decisions, and her parents had just been humoring her. She felt—patronized. And yes, parents could be patronizing in the best of times, but…years of her life, disregarded? It was infuriating and suffocating, both.

That wasn’t all though. If she were honest with herself, a good part of her anger came from the fact that…well, the case had shaken her. And she’d come back here to…lick her wounds, she supposed. Like when she was small and her parents kissed it all better, she’d expected them to reassure her somehow, show her support, tell her that _it wasn’t going to be that way_ , not for her. But they hadn’t. They’d taken the stake of self-doubt already prickling at her chest and driven it through her heart.

No, she decided, straightening abruptly. It _wasn’t_ going to be that way. It didn’t matter if her parents didn’t believe she could do it, if they didn’t believe she could measure up. She hadn’t gotten this far to back down now. She was a Rotwell agent. She was highly trained and highly qualified, and she’d done all that herself. Agents died, yes, but had her instincts yet failed her? Hadn’t she suspected the Dark Specter in that clinic when no one else had? Hadn’t she and her team, together, held their own against the Shining Boy? The dead were dead, and she couldn’t let any Visitor worm its way into her heart and mind like this. _She_ would believe in herself, just like she believed in her teammates, and they in her. There was no reason to doubt, after all.

Yes, she believed.

Mind made up, she began to pack. Staying here with her parents wasn’t doing her the good she’d hoped it would. She was going to go back. And perhaps she’d even stop by the counseling office while she was back.

But she didn’t need anyone to make her feel better. She had herself, and of course she had her team, and that was all she needed.

As long as they were all alive, she could trust in herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if I captured a logical progression of emotions here...but then again, Holly is a teenager, and teenagers aren't always rational. Also, since her parents have always been supportive, to suddenly find out that they don't support/believe in her is going to hurt. And so she has to believe in herself, except she's going the route many agents do: fiercely independent, not going for mental health help, stiff upper lip, etc. And she's basing her belief on her ability to succeed in the field and everyone coming out okay in the end. (Anyone see where this is going, considering what we know? Yeah...). And the line 'that's not the way it's going to be' is intentionally meant to mirror what Lockwood says to Lucy in Book 1. Lucy has already had that fall and begun to doubt herself. Holly has doubts occasionally, but her fears haven't been realized--there's nothing to compound and reinforce those doubts yet. She also doesn't have anyone outside herself (and her teammates, to a lesser extent) to reassure her--either now, or for a while after things go wrong for her. Lockwood seems to do his best to reassure Lucy, but also everyone else on the team in the background. For example, when Holly joins, he tries to help her grow her confidence again, to the point where she starts going back into the field. So yeah, laying the emotional groundwork for all that...
> 
> What do you think?


End file.
